The Last Fucknut In This Craphouse
I’ve punched a lot of nine-year-olds in my life. Which sounds awful if you don’t mention that I was also nine when I did that. Maybe to most of you, it sounds awful that I’ve punched anyone at all, regardless of how old I, or the receiver of the punches, were.
I’m so tired of the assumption that it’s always the big guy who’s the bully, so tired of the assumption that some moderate violence will always be worse than words and body language, so tired of the assumption that no matter what anyone says, it’s never okay to force them to stop.
So tired of the assumption that you should always use your words, so tired of the assumption that that will always fix it, so tired of the assumption that if you just ask someone to stop it, they will.
So tired of the assumption that just because I’m doing well in school and on the court, pitch, ice, whatever, that that means that I can’t possibly be anything close to melting down behind all the successes that don’t help you feel any better when all you really want to do is hang yourself in the woods.
This might make it sound like I just endorsed every kind of murder, assault, and genocide possible, but of course, I’m not. Let me explain.
One significantly annoying parameter of being picked on when you’re slightly larger than everyone else is that whenever you try to shut up whoever is picking on you, usually somewhat violently, someone will inevitably tell you to go “pick on someone your own size.”
This is incredibly frustrating for the simple reason that if everyone else adhered to that rule, no one would pick on me ever. And wouldn’t that just be lovely? But it doesn’t work like that now does it?
It only works upwards, not downwards. As long as someone is bigger than you, you can basically rape them with a shovel, set fire to their hair and murder their entire family by hanging them on meat hooks, and get off scot-free. Simply by being a literal little shit.
On the other hand, if you’re just ever so slightly larger than someone else, and you put a hand on their shoulder, you’re basically worse than the great Satan himself.
In later life, this would lead me to keep my distance from whoever might be walking ahead of me when walking home late at night, since my stature might invoke an impulsive pepper spraying to the face.
Although when whoever is pepper-spraying you in the face is doing it in order to not get raped, you can’t exactly blame them. You just have to take it and appreciate the privilege of being in possession of a penis.
There was one time I fought someone my own size. He was even bigger than me actually. By bigger, I mean fatter and slightly shorter. I don’t know how we got into slugging it out, but I do remember having a massive scar on my forehead after taking a dive off a short wall, crashing my head straight into the pavement like an Olympic diver diving headfirst into a pool being used as a skate park.
I was chasing something or someone, or I was trying to make it back into the classroom with some flair. I failed miserably, and as a result, I had a scar on my forehead that looked like a map of Africa.
The guy I was fighting was called Matteus, he was in 3C, a class that would soon be moved to a different school, leaving A and B to battle it out for glory on the soccer pitch. Matteus was overweight, bordering on obese.
We played on the same soccer team for a while, we were both goalies and he didn’t exactly throw himself after the ball, he fell after it, much like the twin towers in the early hours of September 11th. Yes, that is the most horrible metaphor I could make, but by this point, you should know that I am unable to adhere to any kind of literary human decency.
To me, it felt like fight club, but I’m quite sure it looked like two seals flailing their limbs at each other. Or two penguins trying to slap each other in the face. I think I lost the fight, but I don’t know on what grounds, because I can’t remember being knocked out or running away.
I blamed my loss on my light concussion by pointing to my forehead and saying “I’m pretty sure I could’ve beaten him if I didn’t have this,” to my “friends” after it was all over. I’m sure it made no difference whatsoever.
I was nine and had just lost a fight, allow me to blame circumstances out of my control for once, would ya? I saw him years and years later when he was trying out for my basketball team. He was tall and all the fat had just melted from his body like cheese on a hot burger.
Unlike myself, I’ve just been moderately chubby my entire life with no melting going on as far as the eye can see. Man, I just can’t catch a break. Except for being super-duper smart and funny.
But people don’t realize that unless they talk to me, and since I’m an introvert I won’t exactly waltz up to any stranger and talk to them, so the whole smart and funny thing just becomes pointless in the end. And isn’t that just the last fucknut in this craphouse of an existence, huh?
Once, as we were running to lunch in a full-on sprint (that probably ended up being the root of my feet issues since we were running without shoes on a stone floor. Ah youth.) I can’t remember who, but somebody pushed past me, and I decided to make a remark about how this person was suffering from “ultra-damp,” in annoying-teen-English “Uber-ADHD.”
The reaction to this could not have been more ridiculous. The incident was brought up during the next class council, a ridiculous exercise where the class would engage in something like a play-meeting where different issues would be discussed, but since we were all nine, the whole thing wasn’t exactly factual.
The only good thing was that if it was your turn to be the chairman, you got a gavel to bang on your desk. If it was your turn to be the secretary, you usually looked for something to hang yourself with.
One of the girls usually volunteered because they just couldn’t wait to practice their handwriting and could not possibly give up an opportunity to give the teacher a rim job. (I realize that sounded very sexist but I enjoyed writing it and it’s at least 75 percent true).
When the incident made its way onto the floor for debate, I claimed I had not used the word ultra/uber. What felt like the entire class to me in my tiny, pathetic, nine-year-old mind, stood up in unison and claimed the opposite.
I don’t know why they were so affronted about the addition of “ultra,” I was just being my regular wordsmithing self. I guess that was the problem. If anything, they should’ve been offended that I jokingly claimed that someone was suffering from ADHD when in fact they were not. But apparently, the addition of “uber” was worse. Idiots, they don’t even know how to be woke properly.
It’s difficult to try to explain your side of the story when you know what the response is going to be. Whenever I would get into a scuffle with someone, more often than not Jon, they would always claim they did nothing to provoke me, and since I most often threw the first punch, any witness would say that I started it and leave out any reason why.
I would rather have talked to Veronika about other things, but we ended up talking about my relationship with the other kids quite often since I just didn’t seem to be able to figure out how to relate to them on any level.
There were so many instances of me being frustrated about the fact that everyone sided with the opposite party in any dispute since I was about as popular in this school as a frequently used toilet brush.
After having grabbed Lukas by the hair to get him to shut up, I was of course once again seen as a giant rage monster terrorizing a village of kind hobbits just trying to live their lives.
“It doesn’t matter what I say, they’ll say I did it totally unprovoked. It doesn’t matter what I actually did. They’ll say I’m a complete nutter no matter what,” I told Veronika.
“Why would they do that?” She asked, somehow still believing in the impossible, namely my ability to have a childhood without mental health issues.
“Because they don’t like me, obviously.”
“Of course, they like you, why wouldn’t they?”
“Come on, cut the crap. Don’t lie to me to cheer me up. I’m not like the others. They don’t like me for the same reason you do like me. I’m different, and not in a good way, not to them anyway. And that’s the end of it,” I totally said. It was something along those lines, but we all know nine-year-olds don’t actually speak like that.
My point of view being lost in any discussion or argument is of course even more fun when the hobbits go crying about the giant rage monster to their hobbit mothers. Lukas’s mom Lily came in one day in fourth grade and asked to speak to me, in private.
I guess Lukas didn’t have the balls to do it himself and didn’t want to talk to Veronika about it, since she had a nasty habit of listening to what I had to say as well, instead of just assuming I was the spawn of the great Satan himself like everybody else seemed to think.
Not that I’m not the spawn of Satan, the jury is still out on that. Lily grabbed me gently by the hair and calmly told me that her son did not enjoy it when I did that to him. Of course, he didn’t, that’s the point, you fool, I thought.
“I assume what your son didn’t tell you when discussing this, is that he is a galactic asshole.”
“No, he didn’t mention that.”
“I assume he told you that I only pulled his hair for the fun of it?”
“That is not the way he put it but… yes, that was the gist of it.”
“Well then, I’ll be happy to tell you that every instance where I have even got close to assaulting your son has been a string of desperate attempts to get him to stop picking on me.”
“He picks on you?”
“Like a bastard.”
“I’ll have to talk to him about that.”
“That would be rather fantastic… not that it will do any difference,” I added under my breath.
But of course, I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I just stood there and nodded. And even if I had said that it’s not like she would say: “Oh, I will have to talk to him about that,” she would probably not even accept my words as oooohhh, I don’t know...real?
Then she would start a sentence with “Now listen here young man…” in her charmingly flawed American Swedish. Even though I’m as far from a young man as you can possibly be. I’m an old man, but the problem is that I was born in 1994 and I don’t understand how that could’ve happened.
Besides, what ten-year-old uses words like “assault,” “string of” anything and is “happy to tell” anything? Ten-year-olds aren’t happy to tell anyone anything. Other than “Oh look a maggot, I must throw it on someone’s face.” God, I really hated kids. Despite being one. Or because I was one. Either way, I really hated kids, with all my heart.
In relation to Lukas’s mother Lily, I wrote the following some years ago and now I feel I may have gone a bit too far in one particular way.
As you may remember I had a best friend in school when I was six years old who later turned on me and started to pick on me. Now, I’m not one to hold a grudge, oh wait – yes I am... but his mom died so who gives a shit.
That’s right, Lukas’s mom died. Apparently, she had cancer or something. I actually liked her, and oddly enough she liked me, but at the time my boners came in really weird intervals so I couldn’t fuck her. (Yes, this is the one particular way. I dunno how you feel about fucking-your-former-best-friend’s-dead-mom-jokes, but I remain unsure about this one).
Her son and I were the perfect examples of two guys who could be friends as kids but came to grow into very different people very quickly. I haven’t talked to him since I was twelve, but when you come from a small suburb, you see each other now and then and I could see who he was just by a glance on the street, the bus, or the train station.
He became the stereotypical ab-show-off-clit-flicking-teenager. If you have those abs and show them off as much as he did on social media, I just assume that you get to flick some clits, right? And me? I played my sports, mostly basketball, but also soccer and hockey for a few years.
And then I became this maniac. Could we be friends as kids? Yes, obviously we were very good friends before he decided I was too weird, as everyone else did too.
Could we be friends now? Oh, holy fuck no! Well, I shouldn’t say that because he might not be the guy that I think he is. But I doubt he isn’t. But I would actually have liked to go to his mom’s funeral.
We might only have seen each other a few times but I remember her because she was very special, especially her weird fucking accent. No matter how hard you try, trying to speak Swedish with an Oklahoma accent is always going to sound hilarious.
Many years later, I saw Mikael, one of the guys from the parallel class and the soccer team, and Lukas at the gym I sneaked into with my dad’s gym pass whenever I was home from university. They came in when I was about halfway through my workout.
I didn’t wave or nod or say anything to them. But I didn’t look away either. When I was finished, I walked past them, fixing them with my gaze. They looked away and started talking very loudly about how much they should bench.
“Oh yes, this is very heavy, let’s use this.” The conversation was so obviously forced, it was so obvious they were trying very hard to ignore me. At the gym, all that matters is how you look, and they were both, and I assume still are, in much better shape than I am or will ever be, so technically they “won” or whatever, but they still acted awkward as fuuuuck.
They didn’t even have the decency to even look me in the eye, but on the other hand, I didn’t have the decency to not think as I walked past Lukas, almost a decade since we last spoke: How’s your mom, is she dead!?